


Pick up the Pieces

by murron



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-06
Updated: 2010-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-07 01:47:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murron/pseuds/murron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael raises the stakes, Dean goes missing and Sam has an epiphany.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pick up the Pieces

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers: Up to 5x10  
> Standard Disclaimers Apply
> 
> a/n: Different, slightly AU spin on events following episode 5x10.

 

Ten hours after Dean shot the Devil in the head, Sam stands inside the open door of Bobby’s guest room, fists clenched in the pockets of his jacket. It takes him forever just to go in, setting one foot before the other. Drifting over to one of the beds, he sits down at the foot of the mattress and stares at the duffel that waits by the pillow. Jo hadn’t bothered to pack her bag, the t-shirt and sweats she slept in lie in a heap on the duvet. A dog-eared paperback rests on the nightstand along with a glass of water. Sam reaches for the book, turns it over in his hand and finds it to be a copy of _The_ _Catcher in the Rye._

Leafing through the worn pages, Sam feels the tension that kept him together since Carthage seep out of his body. Breathing deep, he leans forward with his arms on his thighs.

Replacing the book on the bed, Sam wipes his eyes and gets to his feet, paces the room, hating to look at Jo’s things but not ready to leave yet. Like the rest of Bobby’s house, the room is stuffed with occult books and other junk Bobby picked up over the years. Little idols, bowls and ritual knives weighing down piles of periodicals. On the desk by the window Sam finds a stack of framed photographs, pushed in one corner to make room for a box full of dusty vials. More memories waiting to be burned, Sam reckons with a flare of anger. He switches on the desk-lamp before he picks up the pictures, wiping dust from the one on top. First comes a snapshot of a racing car, next there’s a black and white portrait of a woman and last is a picture Sam recognizes.

Surprised, Sam lifts the frame to look closer at the photograph. It shows two boys in front of a bike, one with floppy hair and a face full of freckles and the other wearing a black t-shirt one size too big for him.

Sam has no trouble remembering the day this was taken. They’d been spending the summer at Bobby’s place that year, pedalling down to the quarry pond each day to swim until their lips turned blue. On the picture, Dean holds the bike by the handlebars, his other arm slung over Sam’s shoulders. They’re both grinning like they’ve just been to the moon and back.

Bending forward, Sam braces himself with one hand on the desk. The picture baffles him, not because he didn’t expect to find it here, but because these boys are so far from his current reality they might almost be strangers. He hasn’t thought about this part of his childhood in a long time but it comes back easily enough: the heat of that summer, the wind rushing past and the absolute lack of fear. Strange to realize he’s grown from that, too.

Way before he lost Jessica and the need for vengeance burned him up, way before he knew about his demon blood he’d smiled like _this_.

It’s hard to believe now but there’s been a time when his main concerns were earning some book-money and practicing card tricks. Back when the most important thing was to be with Dean and to have his brother notice him.

The world had got a whole lot bigger since then.

Feeling cold despite his jacket, Sam puts the picture back on the desk. Pining for lost innocence won’t get them through the days to come. If he’s honest, Sam doesn’t know what will.

 

 

**1**

Some minutes short of midnight, Sam has relocated to the floor of Bobby’s guest room, sitting with his back against the nightstand. For no reason he can explain he’s started reading Jo’s copy of _The Catcher in the Rye. He already knows the book cover to back and the familiar lines keep sliding by, pushing all other thoughts to the back. He’s starting on the second chapter when Bobby hollers for him._

“Sam! You better come down, son.”

Alarmed by Bobby’s tone of voice, Sam dumps the book and scrambles off the floor. When he hurtles down the stairs, he finds Dean in the hallway talking on his cell-phone. Seeing Sam, Dean jerks his chin in direction of the den. Frowning, Sam brushes past him into the room where Bobby sits glowering at a woman on the couch. Red hair, caught back in a loose tail, narrow shoulders in a blue shirt … hearing Sam enter, she turns to look at him, stopping Sam dead in his tracks.

“Anna?” he blurts, looking to Bobby for help but getting only a shrug as response.

“Hello, Sam,” Anna says. Dark bird eyes look at him and Sam doesn’t doubt she sees everything. His mouth going dry, he can’t help feeling the weight of his deeds all over again.

“How did you …?” Sam starts out but before he can finish his question, Dean snaps his cell-phone shut and Castiel appears in the hallway beyond him. The angel strides through the doorway and stops, wide-eyed, as he sees Anna.

“How’s that for a family reunion?” Dean comments, following Cas into the room. Sam tries to trade glances, but his brother avoids him and Castiel only has eyes for his fellow angel.

“How did you get out?” Cas finishes Sam’s question:

At this, Anna finally stops staring at Sam. “Our brothers were … preoccupied,” she tells Cas. “And I already knew a couple of backdoors. So I escaped. On my own.”

She doesn’t sound angry but Cas still clenches his hands at his sides. “They said they would kill you.”

“And you never thought to check?” Anna retorts. When she continues, her voice softens a little. “They wanted to. I don’t know why they didn’t.” The corner of her mouth tilts as she adds, “Seems like neither of us is quite ready to leave the stage yet, huh, Cas?”

Cas lifts his chin, non-committal, and Anna lets him off the hook. “So are you going to tell me what happened?” she demands.

Sam opens his mouth to say it’s a long story but Cas steals the march on him. “Dean shot Lucifer with Samuel Colt’s gun.”

Sam snaps his mouth shut. Maybe not that long a story after all.

Startled, Anna twists around. Dean’s face could be carved from stone for all the emotion it doesn’t betray but Anna seems to read all she needs to know anyway. “So,” she says. “What’s plan B?”

“Don’t know that we have one,” Bobby mutters.

“Bobby,” Dean says in a warning tone.

Hands closed around the tires of his wheelchair, Bobby looks up. “I’m just saying what y’all are thinking,” he says, accent thickening with anger. “We’re screwed to hell. Always have been. Standing in the way of Armageddon is just as useless as angel-boy’s quest for God.”

Brows raised, Anna turns to Cas. “You’re looking for God?”

You can see it’s a sore spot from the way Castiel narrows his eyes. “Yes.”

“Have you checked under Morrissette?”

They all stare, Cas with confusion, Sam with disbelief. Anna only shrugs. “I have been human, you know,” she says a little defensively, then gets up off the couch. Walking up to Castiel, she considers his face with something akin to pity. “I don’t think looking for God will do us much good.”

“You don’t, huh?” Dean asks from the doorway. Leaning against the wall, he keeps his arms crossed tight in front of his chest. “You got any more insights you want to share? Because, you know, aside from your great timing we could really use some help here.”

His tone draws Anna’s attention and a small line forms between her brows. “You’re angry,” she states.

“We’re outgunned, outmaneuvered and you conveniently show up right after we lost two good people in a Hail Mary that didn’t change a damn thing,” Dean grates out, teeth bared. “Yeah, I’m angry.” More than angry, Sam decides. His brother’s one inch short from exploding and he’s barely holding it in. Preparing to hold Dean back, Sam starts for the other side of the room.

Anna seems either oblivious to the hostility, or she knows and remains unruffled. “As a matter of fact, I have an insight for you,” she says simply. “You don’t kill the devil. You send him back to the Abyss.”

Sam halts midstep. “Say what?”

“There are rules, Sam,” Anna explains, folding her arms over her midriff. “They apply for every single one of us, angels and demons, no matter how high we rate in the food-chain. What can be summoned can be flung back. You just have to know the words.”

“Are you saying there’s a way to exorcise Satan?” Dean asks, pushing off the wall.

Anna nods. “It’s difficult, but yes.”

“How difficult?” Bobby wants to know. He keeps his poker face, showing no hint of the excitement Sam can’t help feeling. A way out. After today, could it be possible?

Anna squares her shoulders, returning Bobby’s stare. “So difficult it will kill anyone who attempts it.”

Dean snorts, stomping past her to stand by the fireplace. “Now there’s a refreshing change in patterns.”

Castiel looks just as nonplussed as Sam feels. “Anna, what are you talking about? There’s nothing about this in all Revelation.”

“Not in the version they’ve authorized us to read, no.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“It doesn’t?” Anna asks. “Think about it Cas: If there was a way to repel Lucifer, to change the predestined course of Armageddon, do you think Zacharia and his cronies would want us to know?”

“It would spoil the big battle,” Sam says more to himself. Anger rising like bile in his throat, he retreats to the long table and leans against its edge.

Anna throws him a shrewd glance. “The angels’ epic victory, yes,” she agrees. “They don’t care about collateral damage; they don’t even want to avoid it. They just want Lucifer destroyed.”

“And we don’t?” Bobby asks, all eyes turning to him.

From his place by the fireside, Dean adds, “Bobby’s got a point.”

“Dean …” Sam begins but his brother cuts him short.

“Even if we pull this off,” Dean says, “and that’s a big ‘if’, aren’t we just going back to the start?”

“Maybe,” Anna admits, face blank.

Sam watches Dean’s fist clench on the mantlepiece “Are you telling me someone’s got to throw their life away just so a couple years from now some poor bitches are set up to kick-start the apocalypse all over again?”

“Yes,” Anna replies without hesitation. Staring at Dean, she cocks her head sideways “If you want a final solution I can give you Zach’s number.” Struck silent, Dean looks away but not before Sam catches a glimpse of the muscle jumping in his jaw.

“Alright,” Bobby cuts in. He scrubs a hand over his face, making an effort to be efficient. “Where do we start?”

Anna’s not exactly dancing on her toes, but the flush on her cheeks clashes with her angelic equanimity. Anna’s burning to get into the fight all right. Sam always thought she had more spark than any of the other angels. When he said this once to Dean, he’d expected a bad joke but for once Dean didn’t comment.

“There are rituals and passageways,” Anna tells them, “but most of the source texts have been destroyed long ago. Recovering the details won’t be easy. And we don’t have much time.” She looks at Cas over her shoulder before adding, “I have a couple of leads but I’ll need help.”

Cas just stares at her with his lips pressed in a thin line. It makes Sam wonder. The way Castiel’s not reacting to Anna’s surprise entry seems way too bloodless, even for Cas. Watching him, it dawns on Sam that Cas might actually be hurting. Would it be far off to think that the last day has got to him, too? For all his talk about the Colt being a stupid idea, he must have hoped it would work, too. And he liked Ellen, or at least respected her courage.

“What about us?” Sam cuts in but Anna waves him off.

“At this point we’ll move faster without you,” she declares. “We’ll fill you in as soon as we’ve found something to work with.” At this, she turns fully to the other angel. “Cas?”

Cas hesitates, drawing breath as though he’s biting back his first response. In the end he gives in with a quiet voice, “Point the way.”

Anna responds with a smile that Castiel doesn’t return. When Anna turns to talk to Bobby, Castiel looks at Dean and they hold eye contact for a moment, some unspoken message passing between them. Sam frowns. “There are some lore books you can check for cross references,” Anna explains. “It’s a long shot but any small hint might be useful.” She names off a few titles to Bobby, one or two in a language Sam’s never heard before.

“Wait a minute,” Dean interrupts. “Are you putting us on research duty?”

This time when she smiles, Anna looks nothing short of fierce. “Keep your heads down,” she tells them and she and Cas are gone quick as switching channels. Blink and you’d miss it.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean murmurs.

Taking off his baseball cap, Bobby runs a hand through his thinning hair. “Didn’t you say she was Castiel’s superior?” he asks. “I guess she knows how to hold the reins.”

“Do you think she’s on to something?” Sam asks, not sure he wants to know. He’s clutching at straws and tries not to feel too encouraged; he learned where that leads. But even so, the flicker of renewed hope won’t be damped down.

“I don’t know,” Bobby grumbles. “But I’m sick of being dragged around by the short and curlies, I can tell you that. Get hustlin’, you two. Most of the books she listed are upstairs.”

 

 

**2**

They pass the night and most of the morning hauling dusty tomes from Bobby’s attic and setting up a makeshift research centre in Bobby’s den. It’s frustrating work, not least because none of the books come with an index. In addition, the internet connection keeps frizzing. Around ten in the morning, Bobby rolls off without comment, looking grey and tired. Sam doesn’t ask if he needs any help getting to bed. He tried that once and survived. Barely.

Afternoon comes around before Bobby shows up again. Swinging by the kitchen, he growls at the boys for not having eaten, then checks his fridge and grouses some more because they haven’t thought to refill the supplies. “We’ll be here for a while and I’ve got no mind to starve,” he snaps.

End of the story is, Sam’s sent off with a shopping list. Getting food isn’t much of a challenge yet. The apocalypse came and went without much remark, because too few people still believed enough to run around like their heads were cut off. Instead, they just went on going on. Demons and angels duking it out were just another form of natural disaster to be rebuilt from.

By the time Sam returns from his supply run, the sun’s setting somewhere behind the clouds. In the distance, Sam makes out a swath of green on the horizon, heralding a coming storm. The wind’s already blowing strong, bending the naked trees under a threatening sky.

Sam steps inside the house, two paper bags clasped in his arms. He drops the groceries off in the kitchen before he moves into the den, carrying a takeaway pie. In one corner of the room, the TV’s running on mute, showing news reels. Dean’s slumped in one of the armchairs, a book in his lap and his feet toward the fire. Turning the brittle pages, he’s twiddling a bright green text marker in his free hand.

“Bobby know you're using that?” Sam asks, dropping the pie-box in Dean’s lap. Dean’s answering grunt makes it pretty clear how much he cares. Biting down on a smile, Sam relocates to the couch. When he drops onto the sagging cushions, a bunch of books balanced on the armrest wobble to the left. Sam manages to catch the bulk before it caves, paper-clippings sliding into his lap.

“Don’t mess up my system,” Dean warns him without looking up, folding down the corner of a page. Sam flips him off and moves the books to the floor, finally able to extend his arms along the couch’s backrest.

He couldn’t sleep at all last night but it seems nothing siphons off adrenaline like flowery Latin and supermarket queues. Rolling his head from side to side, Sam tries to loosen the cramped muscles in his shoulders. When he looks again, Dean’s lifting the lid of the pie-box only to close it again with little enthusiasm.

Irritated, Sam crumples up a sheet of paper and throws it at Dean. “Just eat it, damn it,” he snaps as Dean’s head shoots up in surprise. “You joined Weight Watchers or something?”

“Alright, alright,” Dean mutters. “Stop fussin’, Florence.”

Sam rolls his eyes and sinks back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling for a change of scenery. A bunch of folders left on the couch dig into his hip. Sam thinks about claiming one of the cots but that would require moving.

On the far side of the coffee table, Dean’s started in on the pie, sucking crumbs from his fingers. He doesn’t ask if Sam wants to share which at least resembles normalcy.

Sam taps the books on the floor with the tip of his boot. It’s not like they aren’t on a schedule but slowing down some sounds so very tempting. It feels like they didn’t allow themselves a minute to breathe for months now. Always running on full steam but tonight it seems he's run out of energy.

Sam combs his hair back from his face and rubs the nape of his neck. Dean’s still skim-reading and even though the light from the reading lamp doesn’t quite reach his face, Sam can see the stubble on his cheeks and the tell-tale shadows under his brother’s eyes. Dean’s taking their back seat assignment pretty quietly, not that they have a choice, but he’s not thinking about taking a rest, either.

At least he’s making short work of the pie, Sam observes and feels like a mother hen.

Looking at Dean makes him think of the picture he found upstairs. For a moment he almost considers fetching it down. He’d ask Dean ‘do you remember’ just to see the look on Dean’s face, telling Sam he’s really gone insane now, trotting out the Kodak moments.

Sinking deeper into the couch that smells like wet dog, Sam puts his feet on the coffee table and closes his eyes. The wind’s rattling around the house, whipping slabs of rain against the windows. Drifting off, Sam tries to focus on the crackling fire and the sound of Dean, turning pages.

 

* * *

 

As soon as he dreams, he’s back at Carthage, moonlight silvering the mounds. Lucifer’s bending over the top of his shovel and smiles at Sam. “Sure you won’t change your mind?” he asks. “Because it would make things so much easier for you and me.”

Listening to his gentled voice, Sam feels his stomach flip, just like it did the first time. In Sam’s nightmare, the scene’s different: Dean’s missing and so is the congregation of demons. It’s just the two of them on the one-time battlefield. One thing’s the same, though: Sam’s still tongue-tied.

“Shame,” Lucifer sighs. “But you know, I think you got me all wrong. I mean, have you read the bible? Before this apocalypse is over, heaven’s going to rain hail, fire and blood upon the earth. And you think _I’m_ the bad guy?” Chuckling, he flicks a scrap of dead skin from the back of his hand. “Not to mention I didn’t kill your brother just now. You got to give me credit for that, don’t you? No? Ah, well.”

Straightening up, Lucifer pulls the shovel from the fresh mound of soil. “Just for the record,” he continues, “I’m not the one who wants to rip into Dean and burn his brain to a cinder. That task falls to _my_ brother. Abel to my Cain. If you catch my drift.”

The smile doesn’t leave his face, not one minute, and Sam feels like he’s going to throw up – hell, he wants to, just to shake the paralysis that won’t let him talk or lift his shotgun just for the heck of it. Or should he fear the moment the spell breaks? Once he can talk is there any guarantee he’ll be able to control the words slipping past his lips?

Panic trickling like ice-water down his spine, Sam watches as Lucifer and the graves blur before his eyes. For a moment, he feels like falling and everything goes black, then the world flips back into being with the speed of a door slamming shut. Only it isn’t the same world anymore.

Somehow the fields of Carthage got swapped for a dimly lit living-room with butt-ugly wallpaper. Also, Sam’s no longer standing, he’s submerged into the cushions of a corduroy sofa. Startled, he sits up and slides to the edge of the couch. His feet sink into a soft carpet and his knees bang into a coffee table. Then he looks at the opposite wall.

A flickering square shows on the green wallpaper, presenting what appears to be a Super 8 film. There’s no projector in the room but the silent movie that keeps rolling, showing shaky shots of a sepia-tinged road. Gras grows high along the roadside and clouds pile above: The landscape looks almost familiar, filling Sam with a sense of déjà vu. Weird.

“What the hell …” Sam murmurs.

“Guess again,” a voice says, startling Sam. Through a curtain of wooden beads, a woman enters carrying a tray with two steaming mugs. “So when you said you wouldn’t be strangers,” she says, “what you actually meant was you’d never call.”

“Missouri?” Sam asks, dumbfounded.

“At least you remember my name,” she teases, setting down the tray in front of him. She looks just like he remembers her, wearing a green cardigan over a turtleneck sweater. Tear-shaped earrings dangle from her ears. He can even smell her perfume, some sweet, unobtrusive, flowery scent … lily-of-the-valley, maybe. Sam almost reaches out to touch her, she seems so real. “Am I still dreaming?”

“Were you before?” Missouri retorts, arching a thin brow before she shuffles out again. “Make yourself at home,” she calls from the next room. “I’ll be right back with you.”

Staring from the mugs to the screen, Sam feels a sudden urge to click his heels.

Up on the wall, the film’s cut to another scene and Sam recognizes the vista at last: It’s Bobby’s salvage yard. The camera wobbles over a jacked up Buick before focusing on two boys in front of a bike. They stand lined up for a whole of two seconds before the bigger of the two flicks the smaller kid’s ear. That earns him a dig in the ribs and that’s it, they’re off wrestling. Dean puts Sam in a stranglehold, and Sam throws his whole weight against his brother, making him stumble and the bike fall over. Next frame, they’re back in position, cheeks dimpled with glee and mischief.

Sam drops back into the sofa. It’s the picture he found come back to life. Before he can reflect on the twists of his subconscious, Missouri returns with a bowl of sugar.

“Make some room, why don’t you?” she says. “You’re a little too big for sitting on my knee.”

Sam obeys by default, shoving into the far corner of the sofa. He opens his mouth only to shut it again without saying anything.

Missouri grins broadly. “Have some cocoa. It helps.”

Gingerly, Sam reaches for the mug, wondering if the cocoa will shrink him to pincushion size. When he closes his hands around the mug, warmth seeps from the porcelain into his palms. Lowering his face, he’s enveloped by a cloud of chocolate and vanilla.

Beside him, Missouri pours two spoonfuls of sugar into her cocoa and stirs it. “Careful, it’s hot,” she tells him, like he can’t be trusted to tie his own laces. Sam can’t help but smile.

“Thanks for the warning,” he says, deciding he doesn’t mind the change of scenery, even if he as no clue what’s going on. The choice is between watching Lucifer dig graves and sharing hot cocoa with an old friend. It’s no competition.

Placing the spoon carefully on the tray, Missouri clasps her hands on her thighs and says, “Now let me look at you.”

She takes her time, studying Sam’s face like she’s deciphering invisible words tattooed into his skin. When she reaches out to stroke his cheek, the muscles clench in his jaw. It’s been so long since someone’s touched him gently. The last person who did was Ruby and the memory makes tenderness hard to bear.

Fingertips against the line of his jaw, Missouri’s expression softens. “Oh, honey,” she sighs. “Don’t tell me. So you got yourself mixed up with angels and big-time demons now, did you?”

Stomach tightening into a knot, Sam turns his head out of her fingers’ reach.

“Don’t beat yourself up over it, Sam,” Missouri says. “We all go astray. It’s what makes us human.”

“Yeah?” Sam mutters. “Last time I looked, ‘going astray’ made me the opposite.”

Missouri clucks her tongue and plucks some corduroy lint from his shirt. Turning to watch the home movie that has never been made in real life as far as Sam can tell, she asks in a casual voice: “How are you going to refuse Lucifer?”

Sam clenches his hands around the mug. The answer that springs to mind reads something along the lines of kick him in the balls, but somehow his mouth can’t shape the words. In the end he finds himself saying, “I don’t know.”

Saying it out loud, Sam has to admit that it’s true. He’s been telling Dean to screw destiny but going from their history, was there ever a solid chance of dodging their lot? Even if Sam doesn’t like to think about it, Lucifer’s self-assurance gnaws at him. Satan doesn’t doubt Sam will cave. Hell, he even knows when and where it’ll happen. How do you fight that? “He thinks I can’t,” he adds for Missouri’s sake, his heart sinking with the realization.

“Hm.” Fixing her attention on the wallpaper screen, Missouri breaks into a sudden smile. “Won’t you look at that?”

When Sam does look, the film shows Dean pedalling the two of them down the farm road. Sam’s sitting in the box on the bike’s rack, holding onto Dean’s belt. Sam huffs out a laugh in spite of himself. What were they pretending at the time? He can’t even recall.

Leaning her elbow on the armrest, Missouri keeps sipping her hot chocolate. “There’s something about angels you need to understand,” she says as if they’ve been talking about something else entirely. “They exist on big concepts. Loyalty, pride – this is how they understand love. And betrayal must end in hate always. No compromise, no dents and fractures. They can’t help it, really. Trouble is, they’re convinced their view of the world is the model for everything else.”

“It isn’t?” Sam asks.

Missouri snorts “No.” As she reaches for the remaining mug, the rings on her fingers clink against the porcelain. She blows on the cocoa, takes a sip and sighs. “Angels, their love and hate burns out every other possibility, but humans … well.”

Missouri pauses, small laugh-lines showing at the corner of her eyes. “People tie their affections to small things. A hand on the shoulder when you need it, an unexpected gesture of kindness ... moments like that, they seem insignificant but in the larger scheme they make all the difference. They’re engrained in people’s souls and the sum of them will tip the scale when you’re not even looking.”

Cocoa cooling in his hands, Sam stares at Missouri without speaking.

“Guess I’m in a philosophizing mood tonight,” she says and chuckles at the boys on screen, tumbling down a jetty like puppies before jumping into the black water of the quarry pond.

“Are you trying to tell me something?” Sam asks, feeling like someone just told him the answer to life was forty-two.

Sighing, Missouri places her mug on the tray. “Honey,” she says, closing her fingers around his and squeezing gently. “I’m dropping anvils.”

 

 

**3**

Sam wakes up with a start and nearly falls off the sofa. It takes him a moment to realize he’s back in Bobby’s den. No more Missouri, no more Zen-flavored cocoa.

To his surprise he hasn’t slept long. The fire’s still burning and the clock on the mantelpiece shows not even half an hour has passed. Dean is gone, but someone cleaned the folders off the couch so Sam could stretch out in sleep. Disoriented, Sam swings his legs off the couch.

Swallowing stale spit, Sam swears he can taste a ghost of chocolate. Carefully not thinking, Sam smoothes the back of his shirt and leaves the room, looking for his brother.

He finds him in the kitchen, raiding Bobby’s fridge.

“Dude,” Sam says, “you just had pie.”

“Yeah, well, it was a very small pie,” Dean retorts without turning. Leaning out from behind the fridge’s door, he throws Sam a tuna sandwich. “Here,” he says, then frowns as he sees Sam’s face. “What is it?”

Still feeling light headed, Sam squeezes the sandwich in its plastic wrapping. “I don’t know,” he answers. “I think … no, you know what, that’s stupid.”

Slowly, Dean closes the fridge. “Okay,” he drawls “Mysterious much?” Bracing his hip against the counter, he opens a bottle of soda, waiting for Sam to elaborate.

Mostly to buy time, Sam turns and shoves the sandwich onto the kitchen table. How can he explain? He lacks the words to describe what just happened … if anything happened in the first place. Still, there is something nibbling at the back of his brain, some wild idea too crazy to consider. “It was just a dream,” he says out loud, “has to be.” Only then he thinks, what the hell, he might as well tell Dean. See what he makes of it.

He’s about to explain when suddenly the sound of wings fills the kitchen. Sam whips around but by the time he gets moving, Dean’s already vanished, leaving nothing but a bottle cap on the counter.

“No,” Sam groans, clenching his fists. “Damn it, no!”

 

 

**4**

One moment Dean’s standing in Bobby’s shoebox kitchen, the next he’s opening his eyes to a dark wood. It’s not the pinewood patch at the back of Bobby’s premise, either, Dean can see that at once. This forest has grown wild and it smells like mountains. Wind shakes the leaves of crooked trees but there’s no longer any sign of a rainstorm. The only noise comes from the screeching bramble and the overhead branches shirring against each other.

Dean scrubs a hand down his jaw. For all he knows, they’ve beamed him to another continent. And he’s still clutching a bottle of soda. Eyes adapting to the night, Dean turns in a circle, taking in the glade and surrounding thicket. It looks like he’s alone but he knows better.

“Zach,” he shouts. “Show yourself you son of a bitch!”

Dean wonders how they found him until it hits him that holing up at Bobby’s might have been predictable. Rookie move. But damn them for giving him no rest, no minute of exhausted fucking peace.

“Come on you smug dick,” he calls, hurling the bottle against the nearest tree. That seems to do the trick because just as the bottle shatters, a man steps into view. There’s enough moonlight to show that it’s not Zacharia, however.

“Hello Dean,” the stranger greets him and Dean doesn’t need to ask who he’s facing. Call it instinct. A man should know his doom when he meets it. Or him.

The guy Michael’s wearing looks like he’s in his late thirties, wearing a parsley shirt and sports jacket. Far from impressive, he’s a bit flabby round the middle, with broad shoulders and two days worth of stubble shadowing his jaw.

“Got to say,” Dean remarks, fighting down the rising panic, “after all the overture you’re kind of a let down.” Beneath the attitude he asserts the depth of the shit he’s in, figuring Sam and Bobby won’t ever get to him in time. Hell, he doesn’t even know where ‘here’ is.

“They tell me you have a sense of humor,” Michael says, coming closer. Dean tries to take a step back and realizes with a shock that he can’t. His legs are as locked down as the rest of his body; he can’t even clench his fists. Trapped like a deer in the headlights, he can feel the sweat starting to bead on his forehead.

The angel regards Dean’s face, showing no sign whether he notices Dean’s discomfort. “I’ve been looking forward to meet you,” Michael says and Dean rolls his eyes.

“Come on,” he growls. “Are you serious? Who’s writing your lines?”

Michael tilts his head in a gesture more reminiscent of Cas than Dean cares for. Hands clasped behind his back, he walks up and down in front of Dean, giving him the long once over until Dean feels like cattle on a prize show. And that comparison might hit a little too close to home.

“What are you going to do now, huh?” he demands in a desperate attempt to divert Michael’s attention. “Because I can tell you right now, whatever you do the answer is still no.”

“Yes,” Michael says ignoring Dean’s smokescreen. “You’ll do.”

“Bite me.” Dean spits out the words, steeling himself for the inevitable torture. Thirty years in hell helped him perfect the art of resistance. Problem is, he also knows he can break.

Meanwhile, Michael comes close enough so Dean can smell the aftershave on his vessel. Up close, a pin-sized white light shows inside the human eyes. Reaching up, Michael frames Dean’s face in his hands and it’s not exactly gentle. Clenching his jaw, Dean fights the urge to shut his eyes.

“Have your games run their course?” Michael wants to know and Dean swallows hard. “You’ve scored quite a number of points. The antichrist escaped, the girl and her mother dead, Death released … are you done playing?”

“Shut your cakehole.” Anger, Dean expected, but Michael’s words also flood him with a wave of shame he’s not prepared for at all.

“Do you know where Lucifer is right now?” Michael asks, tipping Dean’s face up. He continues without waiting for an answer. “He’s down in Egypt releasing the four angels trapped in the river Euphrates and together they will slay the third part of man. One third,” he repeats. “If you let me in, it will end there.”

At this point, Michael’s leaning in close enough so he’s breathing Dean’s breath and it makes Dean’s skin crawl. There’s no malice in Michael’s approach, no force other than some indifferent brand of curiosity and a total lack of boundaries. He’s perusing Dean like he’s testing the waters of his bones and flesh, fingering his skin like an interesting piece of fabric.

“What about the third of mankind?” Dean challenges. ‘”You’re going to help them, too?”

“No. They die. It’s pretold.”

“Fuck you.”

When Michael clucks his tongue and takes his hands away, Dean’s chest heaves with the effort of his breathing. Every muscle in his body is tensed for a fight but the energy can’t go anywhere.

“This is war, Dean,” Michael reasons, unimpressed by Dean’s rejection. “I thought you were familiar with the concept. After all, you are a soldier. Like me.”

Looking into his placid, marble face Dean wants nothing but to scream and scream. “You know I’ve had it up to here with all that one brother to another crap,” he grinds out. “I’m nothing like you.”

“Of course not,” Michael agrees easily. “You’re a vessel. A lesser shell created to conceive a higher essence.”

“Dude,” Dean says with emphasis, “there will be no conceiving.”

By way of an answer, Michael sets out for another circuit, passing behind Dean’s back and out of sight. Dean tries not to let it get to him, making an effort to think around his fear.

First thought is, he’s been in worse situations. And if he can stall and keep a level head chances are Sam will find a way to mount the cavalry. Who knows, in the meantime maybe he can draw Michael out a little, shed some light into his battle plan.

Which leads to a sticky question: Why now? Why would Michael show up in the flesh? Dean figured it was Zach’s job to butter him up before he’s led in front of the officer in command. Somehow he doubts the change in tactics leads back to Carthage. From the way Michael’s talking, the angels would be quite content to let him steam in his own juice. But then could it be because of Anna?

In fact that would make way more sense. Michael plucking Dean from the field right after Anna introduced them to another solution to end Armageddon could be coincidence … or not.

Biting the inside of his lip, Dean recalls what Cas told him about angels and their vessels. Connected by an open phone-line, aren’t they? So what if Michael has been listening in all along?

Dean breathes through his nose, staring into the forest and ignoring Michael who’s rustling dead leaves somewhere out of sight. At the side of his neck, Dean’s pulse begins to beat faster. If he’s on the right track with this then Anna has to be on to something. They have a chance. A real, honest to God chance.

Or, you know.

“Why did you bring me here?” Dean asks, affecting a casualness he doesn’t feel.

“To see what you’re in for,” Michael answers, reappearing on Dean’s left side. Managing to turn his head a fracture, Dean tries to make out the angel’s face. Something in his voice tells Dean to watch out. Zacharia’s a predictable toad, but Dean can’t read Michael at all. His face has no expression and that is one thing, but he also gives off some intangible sense of wrong. The Joe Normal in front of Dean looks like a cheap Halloween costume worn over some unspeakable shape.

“Of course,” Michael continues, strolling to the centre of the glade with his back turned, “my true form will be the last thing you’ll see but I promise once you agree, I’ll restore your eyesight. The idea of the blind warrior might be poetic, but it’s not very useful.”

The word is out before Dean can stop himself. “Don’t …”

Michael only shakes his head. “No bargaining,” he says. “Just watch.”

Seeing as he can’t shut his eyes, Dean has little choice but do just that.

 

 

 

**5**

Sam walks the length of the kitchen, hand twitching toward his cell phone to redial Castiel’s number. They were fucking faster-than-light angels. How long could it possibly take?

“Sam,” Bobby says, eyes hidden by the shadow of his cap. “Stop pacing.”

Sam obeys and leans on the kitchen table, fingers pressing into the wood. He’s about to reach for his phone anyway when Anna and Castiel appear in the doorway.

“What took you?” Sam curses before Castiel’s face shuts him up. There’s a bleeding cut above his left brow and a bruise purpling his jaw. “What happened?” Sam asks but Castiel only shakes his head. Watching Anna walk the kitchen, Cas braces his shoulder against one of the cupboards for a moment. In the pale light from the kitchen lamp, his face looks tired and defeated. “Who was it?” Cas wants to know.

“Can’t you smell it?” Anna asks.

“_Smell_ it?!” Sam echoes and at the same instant, catches himself sniffing.

Reaching to the kitchen counter, Anna picks up the abandoned bottle cap. “When Angels bend space they leave a trace,” she explains, “like the ozone-smell just before a lightning storm. If you’ve been around long enough, you recognize it.”

Dubious, Sam looks at Cas who just lifts a shoulder.

“It’s an Archangel.” Running a hand along the counter, Anna frowns. “Not just any one of them.”

“Michael,” Cas breathes with a flinch. If possible, his eyes go even wider.

“What?” Bobby growls just as Sam rounds on Castiel: “Your sigils were supposed to hide us!”

“He must have known where to look,” Castiel mutters. “I should have thought of this.”

“Damn it,” Bobby curses. “They came here to take Dean before.”

Anna stares at them. “And you thought this would be a good spot for head quarters?”

Bobby opens his mouth for an angry reply, but Sam has no patience for this: “You can sense he was here,” he tells Anna. “Can you figure out where he took Dean, too?

“Yes.”

“So take me to him.”

“No.”

Clenching his jaw, Sam can feel the white hot anger that always hovers at his finger tips. Even with the ghost of power washing through his veins, Sam feels taller than Anna and not just in body size. He grabs Anna’s jacket and pushes her against the fridge. “Don’t you say no to me,” he grinds out. “Don’t you dare. I swear I’ll …”

“Shut up for a second and think,” Anna interrupts, hands clamping closed over his wrists. “I can’t take you because I’m the only one who knows enough about the devil’s exorcism to give us a fighting chance. If I go and Michael kills me you’ll be right back where you started. You think it’s a coincidence Michael shows up now? You think this isn’t exactly what they want, me walking into their hands?”

“We’re not leaving Dean behind.”

“Of course we don’t,” Anna agrees. “But it doesn’t mean we have to be stupid.”

She pushes Sam off without any visible effort and Sam retreats, clenches his fist only to swipe the leftover sandwich off the table. Hate burns under his skin but as much as he wants to blame Anna he knows she’s not the reason why he wants to lash out. Feeling helpless fuels his anger like it always did. And he can’t go down that road, not ever again. He’s promised Dean he wouldn’t let him down and he won’t be any good to his brother if he’s loosing it.

Bobby says his name but it’s Castiel who comes over, placing a hand on Sam’s shoulder. He’s not holding Sam back; it’s more like a signal on whose side he’s on. That’s new. In the past, invading Dean’s personal space has always come easy to Cas but he’s kept his distance with Sam. The touch gives Sam a surprising sense of being included, something he missed without knowing.

“I’ll go,” Castiel declares and for a moment, Anna’s face twists with regret. Sam has a notion the wise decision costs her but he also suspects this isn’t the first time she orders people to the front line.

“If you’re done with the chitchat,” Bobby cuts in, “might we please haul ass? Show him where to go already.”

“Yes,” Anna agrees, moving away from the fridge until she stands toe to toe with Cas. After a second’s hesitation, she lifts her palm to his cheek. Cas doesn’t lean into her touch but he doesn’t draw back, either. “He’ll burn you to a speck on the ground the second he sets eyes on you.”

“I know,” Castiel says, offering up his hand.

Anna takes Castiel’s wrist and places her thumb over his pulse point. “I don’t know how close this will get you,” she admits. “Close enough, I hope.” Neither of them moves for a moment. Once she’s transferred whatever mojo she has going to Cas, Anna closes her hand over his. “You have to be quick. It’s the only chance. Grab Dean and run.” Letting go of Cas, Anna turns to Sam and this time when she speaks, her voice softens. “You don’t have to go, you know.”

“Yes I do,” Sam asserts.

Anna accepts his decision like she’s expected no other answer. “We can’t stay here,” she continues. “Is there a place we can regroup?”

“Pam’s house,” Bobby suggests. When Sam raises an eyebrow at him, he shrugs. “She left it to me and I didn’t have the time to get into real estate.”

Anna nods and holds out her hand to Sam. “Car keys.”

“What?”

“We’ll need the arsenal and we can take some of the books,” she explains. “We’ll come back for the rest if we need to.”

With a pang, Sam reaches into his pocket and tosses Anna the keys to the Impala. “He’ll have my ears for this.”

Hooking two fingers through the key-ring, Anna throws him a wry smile. “Don’t worry, I’m a safe driver.”

For a second, Sam feels the insane urge to grab back the keys regardless, but then Castiel touches his elbow. “Are you ready?” he asks.

“As much as I’ll ever be,” Sam says, wiping his palms on his jeans.

“We have to be …”

“Quick, I know.”

They take no weapons but then, what would be the point?

 

 

**6**

 

When Castiel zaps them to the other end of the E ticket ride, Sam’s prepared. Shaking off his disorientation he sees his brother standing no more than twenty yards away from him. It’s not hard telling him from the trees: The forest is awash light and the source of it stands in front of Dean. Sam can just make out the dark shape of a man in the centre of the radiance, arms lifted from his sides and head tipped back.

It all clicks into place in a heartbeat and Sam’s off running, blind to everything but his brother’s rigid frame. Castiel’s calling for him but Sam doesn’t turn. Tripping over tangled weeds, he catches his balance without slowing and bursts out into the clearing. He stumbles into Dean’s back and hears his brother gasp, the white glaze now hitting the two of them with the force of a hundred floodlights.

Sam claps a hand over Dean’s eyes and pulls him back. It’s like dragging a log until Dean suddenly slumps against him, left hand scrabbling for Sam’s sleeve. One arm wrapped around his brother’s chest, Sam swings them both around, screwing his own eyes shut. His back is between Dean and Michael but it’s not enough, the growing brightness sears through his eyelids just as he can feel Dean tense for a scream.

When a hand clamps down on his arm, Sam’s eyes fly open by default. For once his luck holds, though, and it’s Castiel in front of him, his face ghost-like in the whitening flare. His hands already reach for Sam and Dean.

“Got you,” he whispers and they are gone, afterimages floating before Sam’s eyes long after they make their escape.

 

 

**7**

Something’s off with Castiel’s aim this time and he drops Sam and Dean into Bobby’s driveway, both of them crashing into the dirt with Sam’s elbow trapped under Dean’s weight. The fall knocks the wind out of Sam but before he can roll onto his back, Castiel’s there, grabbing him by the jacket. “Don’t.”

When Sam opens his mouth to protest, Cas puts his hand over Sam’s. He’s still keeping Dean’s eyes closed; in all the chaos Sam’s held on by instinct like Dean’s life depended on it. Maybe it did.

“Don’t let him open his eyes,” Cas says, letting go only when Sam nods.

“God damnit, Cas,” Dean rasps, sounding like he’s swallowed a mouthful of road dust. Close to where they are lying, a car starts up and the headlights come on. Sam yelps and jerks away, pain jabbing his eyes. Dean strains against his hold but Sam takes Cas’ order to heart, he doesn’t let go.

“Get up,” Castiel tells them, “you’re not safe yet.”

Setting his teeth against the sting, Sam pulls up his legs and pushes off the ground pulling Dean with him. His eyes water but he’s okay as long as he keeps his back to the car.

“Sammy?” Dean’s still holding on to his arm and the worry takes all the hard edges from his face, making him look years younger and scared.

“Yeah, I’m okay.”

Castiel’s loosing the knot of his tie when Bobby calls from the car. “Boys, hurry up!” Pulling the tie from his neck, Castiel tells Sam: “No light for at least ten hours.”

Sam can feel Dean’s head twitch in Castiel’s direction under his palm. “Am I …?”

“I hope not,” Castiel answers but Sam doesn’t like the look on his face at all. He takes Cas’ tie and tells Dean to keep his eyes shut before he blindfolds him. He’s barely finished the knot when Cas starts herding them to the Impala. “Go,” he tells them. “I’ll try to set up a false trail.”

“Cas, be careful,” Sam calls after him but the angel’s already gone.

“Move it,” Anna yells from the driver’s seat and Sam doesn’t hesitate, opens the car’s door and bundles Dean onto the backseat.

As they drive off, Sam looks out through the back window, watching the Impala’s taillights illuminate the yard before they’re out the gate and Bobby’s home disappears into the night and the settling dust.

 

 

**8**

The rain catches up with them by the time they reach Pamela’s house, drumming on the roof of the parked Impala like bullets on tin. Sam helps Dean out of the car and props him up when he slips on the porch steps. It’s a testament to the depth of his fright when he doesn’t even swear. Anna and Bobby don’t get out of the car at all.

“Got a container down Naperville,” Bobby tells Sam. “If we set up shop here, there’s a couple of things we need. We’ll be back by the morning.”

Sam nods, pushing wet hair from his face. Reaching out of the car window, Bobby grasps Sam’s arm in a tight grip. “Take care, son.”

“Bobby, what if …?”

“No,” Bobby cuts in. “Your brother’s gonna be fine.”

Sam squeezes Bobby’s arm in turn before he runs back up the porch steps. Dean waits in the open door where Sam left him. “Is that my car driving off?”

“Yeah.” Taking Dean’s elbow, Sam leads him into Pam’s deserted house. “Anna’s driving.”

“Man, it’s got to be Thursday,” Dean mutters, bumping into the umbrella stand and Sam quickly folds an arm around his back to keep him from falling. If he hugs Dean a little longer than necessary, neither of them comments.

 

* * *

 

Sam sits with Dean until he can’t bear sitting still, roaming through Pam’s living room and going through her CD collection in the moonlight. Pressure’s building behind his temples but sleeping is out of the question. He goes to the kitchen for coffee, feels too giddy to even fill the coffee machine and digs through Pam’s cabinets until he finds a bottle of black label. He pours two shots, shucks one and brings the other to his brother. Dean sits motionless on the couch, hands closed around his thighs, but he takes the whiskey and drains it fast.

“Shit’s driving me crazy,” Dean growls but he doesn’t try to take off the blindfold. Sam swallows two aspirins with a glass of water and watches the rain streak the windows until the storm moves on.

The grey light of dawn filters into the living room when they think it safe to try. Sam perches on the coffee table, holding his breath as Dean loosens the knot at the back of his head. He slips the tie off his face, lets it hang around his neck but keeps his eyes closed. Sam watches him bite his lip, his fingers tugging at the limp tie. When Dean opens his eyes, Sam’s hands close around the edge of the glass table top.

Dean blinks, looks at the ceiling and around the room before he lets out a shuddering breath of relief. Thanking any benign powers that might still be listening, Sam sinks in on himself, hands letting go off the table.

Dean drops back against the couch, rubbing a hand over his face before looking at Sam with a crooked smile. “Good to see you, bro.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, putting his head in his hands and laughing softly. “You too.”

Close call, he thinks. Getting closer all the time.

 

 

**9**

Around ten the next day, they’re spraying Pam’s place with Enochian sigils even though it means Anna and Cas can no longer enter. Castiel’s still off somewhere but Anna sticks around, perching on the porch’s rail as Bobby sprays sigils on the weatherboarded walls. When Bobby’s done, Anna takes an experimental step toward the front door and halts.

“Sorry,” Bobby mutters

“It’s necessary.” Anna shrugs before pointing at one of the symbols. “You missed a spot.”

Some paces down the porch, Dean shakes his head. “Am I the only one who sees the irony?”

Beside him, Sam chuckles and winces, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand. He’s still struggling with the aftermath of a headache and his eye-sockets feel like they’ve been filled up with sand. Dean’s eyes are bloodshot, too, and he keeps rolling his shoulders like he’s trying to relieve a bad muscle ache.

If that’s all the damage they carry away from last night, Sam’s a happy ball of sunshine. Talk about irony. They have a pissed-off archangel on their trail, not to mention the devil and Sam … Sam enjoys the sun on the nape of his neck, smells the fresh paint and feels more real than he has in a year or more. Simply dodging Michael shouldn’t satisfy him but it does. He might even make them some cocoa in the evening. The thought makes him grin.

“You seem cheerful,” Dean remarks, cutting him a sidelong look.

“Yeah,” Sam admits. “I guess I realized something.”

“You want to share your epiphany?” Dean asks, shaking the spraying-can.

“Not yet.”

With a shrug, Dean returns to the angel-proofing. “Suit yourself.”

He sounds surprised but pleased, too. Sam recognizes the furtive almost-smile dimpling Dean’s cheeks. It’s been like that since they were kids: If Sam’s happy, Dean’s at peace with the world and sometimes it’s been a burden but not today. Today Sam’s just glad that he doesn’t stand here alone.

 

 

**10**

Pam must have had a green thumb, because her place is chockfull with potted plants, hanging ivy, indoor ferns and some sort of climbing vine crawling up the bedroom wall. It’s enough to lend the place a separate climate. A lot of the plants bit the dust while the house stood empty but some survived the dry spell. For want of anything else to do, Sam goes around the house, watering greenery and carrying dead plants out on the porch.

Cas arrives later that afternoon, riding shotgun in Pam’s Chevy with Anna at the wheel. Dean’s politely suggested they’d switch cars and the angels don’t risk appearing too close to the house for fear of Michael catching on to them.

Sam’s lugging another deceased geranium to the porch when he sees Dean sitting on the steps talking to Cas. Wiping his soil-stained hands on his denims, Sam arrives in time to hear Cas saying, “I think I gave them the slip.”

Dean shakes his head. “Dude. You’re enjoying the double-oh lingo far too much.”

Footsteps on the porch announce Anna coming their way. Pushing her hair back behind her ears, she takes a seat next to Dean. The gathering is almost peaceful, Sam thinks.

“Hey there chief,” Dean greets her. “What are the orders?”

Stretching her legs down the stairs, Anna looks human enough to fool anyone who doesn’t know she’s different. “Keep a low profile,” she says. “For a couple of days.”

“What about the genocide Michael was announcing?” Sam asks. “Shouldn’t we do something about that?”

“Freeing those angels is going to take time,” Anna answers. “We have some leeway. And if things go as I plan, we’ll have a good deal more to help us in two days.” When Dean quirks a brow, Anna adds almost ruefully. “Don’t worry, you’ll see battle soon enough.”

 

* * *

 

Evening finds them in Pam’s living room, playing poker. When the doorbell rings, Dean jumps, reaching for the duffle that holds their guns. Sam chuckles, putting down the cards. “When they come, you really think they’ll ring the bell?” he jeers and goes to answer the door. He returns with four pizzas and grabs the DVD he’s left on top of the sideboard.

“What’s this?” Dean demands, eyes widening at the sudden rainfall of food topped with melted cheese.

“What’s it look like?” Sam retorts, parking the pizza delivery on the coffee table. Seeing the look on Dean’s face he adds, “Thought we could do with some R&amp;R.”

“That’s what you thought, huh?” Dean watches him closely and for a second it seems like he’s going to say more. Sam wishes he wouldn’t. Good thing about his brother is, though, he doesn’t waste words.

“Knew there was a reason you went to school,” Dean mutters just as Bobby rolls in.

“Is that pizza?”

“No Bobby, it’s Sushi. Grab your chopsticks.” Dean huffs, fishing the DVD off the table to take a closer look.

Bobby actually pulls a face and for once, Sam doesn’t fight the smile that wants to surface. It hurts a little, that smile, if only because Sam knows how close to the edge they’re all standing. Bobby knows it, too, and lately Sam can watch him age, the lines around his eyes and mouth deepening. He wouldn’t admit it, either, but the threat of Dean losing his eye-sight has taken its toll on him. Sam has seen Bobby sitting in the shadow of Pam’s kitchen, staring at nothing and Dean has witnessed that, too. They shut up about it like there’s magic in omission: Don’t speak of a thing and it won’t harm you.

Sam knows the amount of pain they keep under wraps eats up their resources. Bobby, Dean, Sam … after all they’ve lost, people, hope, self-belief, the pieces that remain are held together by duct-tape at best. Wouldn’t take much to scatter them now. Ordering pizza at the eve of destruction might be fighting avalanches with a hairdryer.

It’s good pizza, though, Sam thinks, smelling the promising mix of warm pizza crust, garlic oil and tomatoes. He moves around Pam’s living room, searching for the remote. It’s slid behind the TV and Sam has to crouch low to get it. Coming back up, he catches Bobby looking at him. It’s a look Sam remembers, the one that says ‘what are you up to, boy’ and as usual, Sam feels caught in the act. He’s all good intentions tonight, though, but he won’t spell it out for Bobby. The feeling he has, this instinct, it’s too fragile to be put into words.

More misery will be piling at their doorstep soon enough. They might resent their benchwarmer appointment, but Sam suspects Anna left them in the dark one more day out of kindness. They have a chance to catch their breath. And Sam needs that. He needs to look again.

All the time he thought if only he could get stronger he’d be able to protect everyone. He believed in Ruby’s promise of becoming _more_ because he thought that would win the war. The thing is, using his demon blood alone might not have made him hell’s tool. Deciding that his humanity was the weakness tripped him.

It was too big, all of it, and Sam had it wrong all along: Becoming larger than life, rising fast to power was not the way to save anything or anyone, least of all his brother. Dean needed something more earthly to ground him. And, Sam realized, so did he.

When they abandoned Bobby’s place, Sam left behind the picture with the bicycle, but he dug through his Dad’s old stuff until he found another photograph. It’s a wrinkled shot of him and Dean, aged seven and eleven, fixing Jim’s fence when he took the Winchesters in for a couple of months. Sam’s carrying the picture in his breast-pocket, right over the tattoo that wards off possession and he thinks that is fitting.

“You’re kidding, right?” Dean asks, holding up the DVD. “’Angels and Demons’?”

Sam shrugs. “I liked the book.”

Dean rolls his eyes but his cheeks dimple. Sprawling out on the couch, he throws Sam the movie and plants his feet on the coffee table. “Hit it, Chewy.”

“I don’t believe it,” Bobby grumbles, going through the pizza cartons until he finds the one with the extra pineapple. “The world’s about to end and you girls want to throw a slumber party.”

“Suck it up,” Dean tells him good-naturedly and grabs the pizza from the top. “Beer?”

“Hell yeah.”

While Dean marches off into the kitchen, Sam starts the DVD and claims the spot Dean has warmed on the couch. It’s a comfortable couch and this corner allows for the best view at the fern-framed screen. Sam spreads his arms on the backrest with a sigh.

“In your dreams,” Dean says on his return and Sam smiles up at him. “Move me.”

Dean huffs, drops a beer bottle into Sam’s lap and moves to the other side of the sofa.

Sam pulls the cap of his bottle and takes a swig before Dean shoves one of the pizza cartons at him.

“Tom Hanks?” Bobby exclaims, watching the first minute of the movie. “Come on!”

Sam chokes on his beer, coughing. “Hey, no complaints from the sidelines.”

“Yeah,” Dean joins in. “Shut up or he’ll whack you with a box of chocolates.”

“Bite me.”

While Bobby keeps muttering about disrespectful youth, Sam and Dean clink bottles before Dean pushes another pillow into the small of his back. Sam leans forward to take off his boots.

Missouri’s got it right, he decides. There is the big picture, but there’s also this: the possibility to accept their flaws and the little points of connection that run deeper than heaven or hell’s purpose. He’s been looking for strength in the wrong places.

 

 

_end_   
_ ___________

21/01/10

**Beta** by the ever wonderful **Auburn**


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